


Not a Pawn

by Goldenrayofsunshine



Series: Resurrections [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angry Toby Smith | Tubbo, Author is a Toby Smith | Tubbo Apologist, Author is a TommyInnit Apologist (Video Blogging RPF), BAMF Toby Smith | Tubbo, DadSchlatt, Dream Team SMP Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Enemies to Friends, Gen, I mean he's still an asshole for now but trust me, Jschlatt Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt Being a Jerk (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt is Toby Smith | Tubbo's Parent, Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Morally Ambiguous Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Not RPF, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Panic Attacks, Parental Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Canon, Post-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Sam | Awesamdude, Protective Wilbur Soot, Resurrected Wilbur Soot, Sam Nook - Freeform, Sam Nook is a robot, Snowchester, Suicidal Thoughts, TAGGING SYSTEM BURN IN HELL, THE CHARACTERS, Toby Smith | Tubbo Has PTSD, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, Toby Smith | Tubbo is Not Okay, TommyInnit Has ADHD (Video Blogging RPF), Traumatized Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF), Tubbo has dyslexia, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, and understand his motivations, autistic author, broke: pre-canon biological dadschlatt, but you see why Tubbo might feel differently, give tubbo a glock, im so glad tubbo has nukes, like all enderman, look I like techno's character, ranboo is autistic, reformed schlatt, resurrected jschlatt, society has progressed past the need for Philza Minecraft, tubbo has nukes, tubbo is smart, u heard it here first, woke: post-canon father figure dadschlatt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29310147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenrayofsunshine/pseuds/Goldenrayofsunshine
Summary: ***Schlatt can’t move. There’s some strange machinery all around him, tight, coffin-like walls curving around his body, and he can’t move an inch. Tubbo’s standing over him, holding a loaded crossbow and looking as if he might cry. Schlatt snorts, choking on his dry throat. The posturing makes him sick. “Hey, kid. I can’t get up.”“Oh, I know that, Mr. President.”***Everyone keeps telling Tubbo that he's becoming the next Schlatt. So he resurrects the dead dictator to get some answers. Tubbo has nuclear weapons!! :D
Relationships: Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Ranboo & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Resurrections [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155215
Comments: 206
Kudos: 642
Collections: Completed stories I've read, Fanfics I’d eat again at 3 am and already have





	1. The Same but Different

He could have stayed dead, easy.

After all the time that had passed, battles that had been fought, dust that had settled, his body deserved to stay in the ground. Schlatt knows this, and in the end he’d accepted it. Maybe he’d been evil, but that didn’t matter - all that had mattered in the end was that he had been weak, and he had lost. He was done, all-three-lives done, and in the end he’d been so old and weak and pathetic that his heart had simply stopped beating.

But now he sits up in the void, anticipatory, as the mad scientist with a child’s face and a scholar’s hands attaches electrodes to his slumped chest. Any minute now - the rain has turned to thunder, the trident gleams with enchantments, and Schlatt’s old book lies open on a table. A bright flash, a burnt smell, and he’s back, and his limbs stretch and jerk with horrible pain.

***

Tubbo’s not sure why he does this. He can’t justify it to any of his old friends. Out of all of them, he should have the most reason to hate the dead dictator, but he just doesn’t. He looks inside of himself for resentment, for anger, and finds a hollow place. A lot of people say it’s wrong to awaken the dead, to experiment on his friends, to build bombs. That he’s wrong to build a country again, that’s he’s foolish to think he can create something beautiful and expect it to be safe. His fists tighten. A lot of people say a lot of things.

It’s not as though he hasn’t learned. He has few successes to speak of, but he believes above all in the pursuit of knowledge. Hell, it’s strange that his friends expect any different - isn’t he always sporting bruises from his scientific adventures? - trident flight, head hunting, ravager teleportation? He knows he’ll often fail. He doesn’t see why he should decide to limit himself.

So he doesn’t feel anger as he peers into the serene, dead face of the man who once had him executed, and if he feels anything like fear, he pushes it down. Mostly he’s proud of himself, because once again he’s doing the impossible. He’s never doubted himself, even though he knows everyone else looks down on him. That doesn’t matter. In the end, he didn’t want - he’s never been able to accept that Schlatt’s dead. Not while Tubbo still has so many questions for him.

He recites the ritual - the font in which the book is written he finds surprisingly easy to read, and sprinkles the dictator’s corpse with a bit of powdered shark fin donated by his Totem friend (Foolish shares his enthusiasm for science, after all, and the cartilage will grow back). He looks up at the sky, and directs the lightning.

Tubbo blinks once, twice, holds his breath. Then he notices that the body on the table is breathing also: the deep, rapid gasps of a man in pain. Tubbo can’t believe it’s worked - he’s gotten so used to taking the full force of headbutts from angry cattle, failing to restore his dear friend’s memory problems, dropping out of the sky onto unforgiving desert sands - and so he is surprised at his success - surely that’s why his heart seems to catch in his throat. He sets his shoulders, points a weapon, keeps his distance. At the same time, he smiles warmly. Tubbo is forgiving, but he’s not stupid. As Schlatt jerks awake, his arms and legs rattle in tight cuffs.

***

Schlatt can’t move. There’s some strange machinery all around him, tight, coffin-like walls curving around his body, and he can’t move an inch. Tubbo’s standing over him, holding a loaded crossbow and looking as if he might cry. Schlatt snorts, choking on his dry throat. The posturing makes him sick. “Hey, kid. I can’t get up.”

“Oh, I know that, Mr. President.”

Schlatt knows he should feel angry, being mocked like this. Or he should be afraid, lying here so powerless with a weapon locked on his chest. But he understands. Hell, he understands everything. He understands power and how to get it. He can tell how scared Tubbo is, even as the kid sets his face into an easy scowl. He knows the laboratory in which he’s woken up is equal parts a theatrical set, the props all chosen intentionally - since when does Tubbo fight with a crossbow? And most of all, he knows he’s still the one with all the power in the room - because he may be weak, deposed, and half-dead, but Tubbo is still Tubbo, and is trembling, and has come back for him.

“Tubbo! Get these cuffs off of me, man.”

The boy’s nose wrinkles for just a moment. “Hell no.”

"What? You’re fully armed, and I’m an old man with heart problems. What the hell do you think I can do to you?”

And Tubbo obviously doesn’t want to admit he’s scared, so he smiles charitably and undoes one cuff.

It’s enough. Schlatt knows he’s winning. He reaches his freed right hand up and scratches at his collarbone. God is he itchy.

“No!” Tubbo slaps at his hand, “Don’t move that electrode, please. I’m still monitoring.”

“Always the scientist, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never brought anyone back from the dead before,” says Tubbo, face flushing, “Well, no one has. Until now. Until you.”

Schlatt grins, points around the kid’s head. “I see you used my recipe.”

“Yeah, that’s one of the things I’ve been meaning to ask -” Tubbo picks up the book, that leatherbound volume for which they’ve all given so much. “How did you even get this? Resurrecting the dead? All I remember you caring about were parties and alcohol. And, like, protein shakes.”

Schlatt shrugs simply. “I like to know things.” It’s not an answer - not a decent answer. But Tubbo startles, like he’s just realized something important. “So fill me in, little man - I’ve been out of commission for a while. Where have you been? Where are we now? What have you been doing with your life?”

Tubbo smiles shyly, and in answer to all three questions, says, “Snowchester.”

Schlatt’s never heard of the place. “That a new country?”

“Well, Manb-- L’Manberg, wasn’t salvageable, after everything…” Tubbo’s tone is friendly, but he stares at his feet, hurt, reminding Schlatt of a kicked dog. “Did you know the country blew up twice, under my Presidency?”

This kid? President? Schlatt has to laugh. That’s awful. He almost feels sorry for the young traitor. Tubbo will never have what Schlatt had.  
“So tell me about this Snowchester.”

Tubbo thinks for a while. “It’s a sanctuary,” he says finally. “It’s a place where all my friends, where anyone who wants to can go and be safe.”  
Schlatt seriously doubts that. There’s no sanctuary in a country that can’t defend itself, and Tubbo’s not powerful. Not terrifying. Schlatt was terrifying. And he fell anyway. “It sounds like a nice place, actually,” says Schlatt. He brushes sweat from his forehead. God, he hurts. The bolt of agony has passed on, but his whole body aches with exhaustion and disuse. “Will you show me around?”

Tubbo glares at him. “Yeah, I’m not falling for that. You stay tied.”

“Fucking hell, kid, I need to stretch my legs. Please let me up. Otherwise I’ll get a blood clot and we’ll be right back where we started.”

Tubbo’s a nice boy. He doesn’t want to be inhumane.

“What am I gonna do? Run?”

Tubbo laughs at that. He has a nice laugh, Schlatt thinks, a bit of an airhead giggle. He doesn’t understand how someone can be so smart and yet so stupid where it counts. But he’s genuinely grateful when the boy removes the cuffs from his arms and legs and helps him to stand. The crossbow is still in Tubbo’s hands, but lowered. Schlatt could grab for it. He doesn’t.  
His vision goes fuzzy and he collapses against a wall.

“Easy there, Mr. President,” says Tubbo, and Schlatt can’t tell if he’s sincere. Tubbo’s exactly the kind of person to help an enemy up and address a murderer by his title, but what he’s said would also be the perfect jab. Not for the first time, he wonders if Tubbo knows more than he’s letting on. There’s deep concern on the kid’s mangled face, even through the curls of the dramatic burn scars. Schlatt winces. He hadn’t expected the wounds to scar that much. He also hadn’t expected his executioner to show up with a fucking rocket launcher.

Oh well. If Manberg is, as Tubbo says, blown to pieces, if his own reign of terror has been overshadowed, if his husband has moved on, if his evil ambitions have been forgiven, at least Tubbo will always remember that Schlatt was here, that Schlatt did great things.

“Can you walk? Do you need your wheelchair?”

“Fuck off,” says Schlatt, but he can’t step away from the wall.

Tubbo scrambles away nimbly and comes back with a cane, a beautifully carved thing, dark oak tipped with silvery metal. It’s powerful, it’s grand, it’s fancy, and it lets Schlatt heave himself upright. He remembers why he used to like Tubbo. After the festival, he’d missed that helpful kid who had followed him around like a caddy.

“Let’s go see Snowchester,” says Tubbo, and the idea sounds so pathetic that Schlatt agrees, welcoming the distraction.

***

The city is beautiful, Schlatt can’t deny that. It’s not his style, but he likes the coziness of the houses, the glare of the sun off the snow, even the berry bushes that tear at his clothes as he and Tubbo tamp down a path from the laboratory to the town square. The buildings seem mostly residential, and are all built out of spruce and gray stone, uniform in a way that tells Schlatt that Tubbo has had a hand in each one’s construction. That’s the Tubbo he remembers, energetic, diligent, creating a world for his own friends to destroy. He’d organized the festival, hadn’t he? Schlatt barely remembers. He’d been very drunk. But he seems to remember that small, slight boy enthusiastically sketching facades, hiring contractors.

“This is Captain Puffy’s cookie store,” says Tubbo happily. “-Oh. I guess you wouldn’t know who that is.”

“Not a lot of news in the afterlife.”

“Well, her name is Captain Puffy, and she owns a pastry shop. That should tell you enough.”

Tubbo points out Jack Manifold’s home, and another place belonging to someone called Foolish.

“Lot of new people,” Schlatt comments.

“It’s been a long time. But I’ll introduce you to Foolish eventually. He helped revive you.”

One person seems conspicuously missing. “Where’s Tommy? Did that idiot finally get himself killed?”

Tubbo looks so uncharacteristically angry that Schlatt half expects to get hit.

“He’s alive. He’s okay. He’s - he’s healing. But he doesn’t live here in Snowchester, for a lot of reasons.”

Schlatt throws up his hands in mock surrender and whistles merrily. “Anyway, thanks for the tour. You got anything else in the speech?”

Tubbo flinches, and Schlatt understands, then, that there will be nothing else. All Tubbo’s got is this empty shell of a country, a sanctuary that’s just going to fail like all his other projects, a million questions which no one will ever answer.

But then Schlatt looks up, and he realizes Tubbo’s started smiling. His eyes gleam, even the one that’s milky with firework scars. “Actually,” he says, “There is one more thing I’d like to show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Tubbo don't show the evil dictator your nuclear silo
> 
> (420 kudos gals/gays/theys?)


	2. This is Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo shows the ex-dictator his nuclear silo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you hear it in the sky  
> you see a smoke trail  
> look out  
> it's gotta be nukes!!

Yeah, he knows better than to show this evil, evil man his nuclear arsenal. But when Schlatt invokes the festival, Tubbo’s practiced calm shatters. More than that, the playfully malicious words break through his depressive numbness. It is good to feel something again.

He despises the way Schlatt is looking down on him, like he’s still the helpless go-between who had to die before a war could even begin. It’s important to Tubbo that his enemies know how much he’s changed. So he leads Schlatt by the hand into the hangar. “Close your eyes. Keep them closed.” He pulls the cord to turn on a light, closes the doors. “Alright, Mr. President. You can look now.”

Schlatt looks.

***

He yelps, and his still-shaky knees give out under him. He catches himself, leaning equally on his cane and Tubbo’s shoulder. The garish yellow warning signs - the burnished chrome - the electrical odor - no, he can’t hide his shock. That wouldn’t even be fair. He shakes his head softly and stares upwards, amazed, at the missiles.

“What do you think?”

He sounds excited. He sounds young. Schlatt can’t quite decide what he thinks.

It’s not surprising. Well, it is. But it didn’t come out of nowhere. This kid is a fucking genius. If anyone could build a nuke from scratch, it would be Tubbo. Tubbo is methodical, he is logical. If he’s decided to arm himself with weapons of mass destruction, then he didn’t make that decision lightly. He must feel threatened. Tubbo, however he carries himself these days, is scared, unbelievably scared. Or he used to be.

“Fine. I’ll admit it. I’m impressed.”

Tubbo twitches with faint pride, which is immediately replaced by something sadder.

“You’re impressed.”

“See, I thought you were a cowardly piece-of-shit spy, but you’ve just stepped the fuck up and made something of yourself. I can’t believe it.”

“I’m not the same anymore,” says Tubbo, although he dislikes the characterization of his younger self. Manberg’s Tubbo was a brave kid who’d faced impossible odds with grace, right up until the moment the firework rockets killed him. 

“You’ve done a good job of hiding this. Making Snowchester look so sleepy and peaceful.”

“Snowchester is peaceful. It has to be. It’s what I want.” Tubbo bites the inside of his cheek. “That’s why I built the nukes.”

“Wow, Tubbo. I mean, after what you’ve been through, I didn’t expect you to ever want to see another explosion.”

“No - you don’t get it. Nobody gets it. That’s the whole point! Nothing has to blow up anymore. No one gets to destroy my home anymore.” He calms down, wipes spit from his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s a deterrent. If anyone tries to hurt me or my friends ever again, I’ll tell them what I have, and they’ll leave me alone. I need power to keep me safe. You of all people should understand that.”

And Schlatt does. He looks at Tubbo and sees all of him - his round, babyish face and the starburst of keloid that sits atop it, the tie, the fluffy coat, the thin leather gloves, and feels a stirring of real respect in his undead chest.

“You’re good for this country, Tubbo. You’re protecting your citizens.”

“It’s not a country,” Tubbo says quickly, “I’m not the president.”

“But you’re a leader,” says Schlatt, and leaves it there. He seizes with a terrible cough. Once the spasm leaves his throat, he spits a dead maggot out of his mouth. Tubbo picks it up and peers at it with interest before jotting something down in a messy notebook. “Ever the scientist.”

“Sorry,” says Tubbo, and hands him a glass of water. “Drink this, please.”

And Schlatt tries, but his hands are shaky, his grip weak, and most of the water pours down the front of his shirt.

“Resurrection may be a difficult process.” The kid looks so smug.

“Alright, if you’re not going to explain, I guess I have to ask. Why the fuck would you bring me back to life?”

Tubbo frowns. His shoulders pinch upwards toward his ears, unconfident. “A lot of people have told me that I’m becoming the next Schlatt.”

“Oh, kid, don’t flatter yourself. You could never.”

“It isn’t a compliment.”

“I gathered.” But Tubbo really does look sad, and teasing him’s no fun. “What on earth have you done to earn that title?”

“Same as you. Sending my oldest friend into exile. Trying to keep my country together.”

“Any public executions?” asks Schlatt, hand on his chin.

Techn-- Technically not. “No.” 

“Did you drain the rivers? Burn the trees? Do anything else to carry on my legacy?”

Tubbo squints. “I’m not you. Why would I be?”

“And don’t fucking forget it.”

***

Recovery’s a slow process. Slower, because Tubbo keeps him locked in the basement at night. There’s no bed down here, and the walls are cold. Sure, Tubbo’s given him pillows, blankets, even a warm coat to wear, but for a man who’s used to living in luxury, his accommodations are nothing short of humiliating.

Schlatt’s third day back to life, Tubbo seems upset. His eyes flicker between the book in his hands and the man on the table. “I don’t understand. You should be stronger by now. Am I doing something wrong?”

“Damn,” Schlatt grunts, “I never read to the end of that book anyways. Got bored. Read me what you’re looking at?”

He tries, he really does, but the words swim and rearrange themselves in front of his eyes. It gets so much worse when he’s stressed, or put on the spot. He’s so stupid he feels like crying. 

“Oh,” says Schlatt quietly. “Right, well - I’ll let you in on a secret. You didn’t do anything wrong, Tubbo, because the ritual worked perfectly. I’m as strong now as I ever was before.”

“Really?” asks Tubbo, puzzled. Because he’s been diligently recording his patient’s muscle atrophy, labored breathing, discolored lips and hands. Has he been wrong? Has Schlatt somehow been hiding his strength from him?

“I’m a very old man. I like to smoke, and drink.” He doesn’t know why he’s admitting his weaknesses to this kid, his enemy. He remembers his desperate, flaunting exercise routines: pushups on the whitehouse floor, squats on the debate stage, trying to convince his people that he really was a strongman. Tubbo had had a better idea. Tubbo was small and sweet and nonthreatening and always would be, so Tubbo built nukes.

***

It’s been a week now, Schlatt thinks, if he had to guess. It’s hard to judge the passage of time here. Tubbo’s town is monotonous, quiet. A perfect place for a child president who enjoys the little things in life and never seems to get enough sleep. But it’s a form of torture for Schlatt, the ex-dictator and political mastermind and, hell, social butterfly who’s itching to know what has happened to his old enemies, who longs to see anything other than spruce trees and sweetberries and fresh fallen snow. It’s not that he’s looking for trouble. He’s just curious.

It’s that curiosity, and maybe a tinge of hatred, that brings him padding into Tubbo’s home office. The boy doesn’t notice as Schlatt opens the door and steps over the threshold; he’s bent over an enormous scroll of graph paper, sketching furiously. He could be designing a beautiful vacation home, a plutonium detonator, or even just another useless Rube-Goldberg device, and his joyful focus would be exactly the same. Schlatt’s sort of proud that he can still make Tubbo flinch when he enters a room. He used to be somebody, though now he’s retired.

“Can you do something for me?”

“Yes,” says Tubbo immediately, before his lip quivers. “Actually, maybe I can, and maybe I can’t. Maybe I won’t.”

“Tell me everything that’s happened since I died. I am so lost, man.”

“Everything?” asks Tubbo hesitantly. “Yeah, fine. I can do that.” He’s not so sure he can.

***

“First of all, Wilbur died.” That’s not the first thing, of course, but it’s the focal point. It just leaps out of Tubbo’s mouth. “Actually, first, he made me President. Then he blew up my entire country. Then he got his dad to help him kill himself.”

“Hm,” says Schlatt, “That all sounds like Wilbur.”

“We rebuilt, of course we did.” To Tubbo, that had been obvious. He’s good with his hands. He creates beautiful things and safe houses. The whole city, New L’Manberg, had been a work of art. He’d seen symbolic resonance in the fact that they’d refused to erase the crater, had filled it instead with water and fish and bright coral, acknowledging that something visibly broken can still be great. Yeah, he’s never tried to hide his scars since the day he got them. They built the houses up taller, on stilts.

“It was nice, for a while. I don’t know if you would have liked it, but maybe so. I had a cabinet. We had old laws, like no armor in L’Manberg. I made new laws, no fireworks. In New L’Manberg.” He’d been happy, he’d been proud, he’d been hopeful. He’d thought - so stupid - but he’d thought - that he could just ban violence and keep everybody safe. “And then Tommy got into trouble.”

“That sounds like Tommy.”

“Fuck you, you don’t know him.”

“My first guess is arson.”

He’s right, but Tubbo’s right too. “I didn’t want to hurt him. I wasn’t even angry at him, he was still my best friend. But he was also my vice president, and I was trying to run a country. We had laws, and he had to follow them. So we had a trial.” He was still proud of that, the fact that his L’Manberg had had a courthouse, with a lawyer and a judge. Of course, in the end, that hadn’t mattered.

“It could have been alright, at least for a little longer, but Tommy - he wouldn’t suck it up. He wouldn’t admit that he’d done anything wrong, or accept any consequences for his actions. Usually people act like that if they’ve been -- spoiled, or something, but Tommy has never had a win in his life.”

“He’s an enigma.”

“Yeah,” says Tubbo quietly. He has to get on with the story. “We could’ve - I would’ve handled it differently, but it wasn’t my choice anymore. Tommy had made us a very powerful enemy.” He feels sick, remembering his moment of utter helplessness. Luckily that’s never going to happen again. He’s made sure of it. 

“In the end, Dream gave us an ultimatum. If I didn’t exile Tommy, he’d destroy L’Manberg. I had to choose between my best friend and my country. And I still would’ve chosen Tommy, except that I was the President. I had a duty. We couldn’t go to war, we would have all died, I would have, Tommy would have died, we’re both on our last lives -”

Schlatt knows.

“And I didn’t know how bad exile would be, I mean, Tommy had been exiled before…” Oh, he should have known. He should have realized how wrong he was, as soon as the thought crossed his mind. He’d seen the ravine, the walls plastered with buttons, and he’d seen Wilbur’s body, lying discarded in a puddle, rotting, the trenchcoat picked off of him. At least that spiral had been lit by the excitement of rebellion. Tommy was just depressed. Tommy had just crumbled.

“I had no way of knowing - I mean, I couldn’t imagine how bad it got in the end. Tommy - I’m not even sure what happened to him, but he’s different now. He’s still not okay, and he’ll never be the same.” He knows more, a little bit more, but he can’t bring himself to say it. He skips ahead.

“I would’ve held a funeral for him, but I just couldn’t do it. Um. Fundy gave me a bee for my birthday. He said it was like Tommy but less annoying. He said it was like Tommy but it could fly.” He can’t breathe, remembering how awful it was, how he’d been so sad he’d just broken right through the other side and felt almost hysterical. Wasn’t it funny, how Fundy always knew the wrong thing to say?

“By the time I realized Tommy was alive, I thought he was going to kill me. I would have let him, if he’d wanted to. I didn’t want to die, but… 

“He didn’t kill me. He came home, and we lost a war, and our home blew up. I was right, though, at least. I couldn’t protect my friend and my country at the same time. Actually, I couldn’t protect anyone. This time, the crater was so deep that even I couldn’t bring myself to build something in its place. My citizens scattered, and I started Snowchester.

“At first I didn’t mean for it to be anything. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could have a home, a nation, to think that I could ever win. Really, I just wanted something to do with my hands. I - almost in my sleep I built this huge, boxy building with long walls and a high ceiling. It was so beautiful on the outside that I couldn’t bear the thought of it just turning into rubble all over again. And I needed something to put on the inside. And that’s when I got the idea.

“Dream was still messing with Tommy, though. And Tommy’s my friend. So when he went off to confront the man, of course I came with. It wasn’t even a question.” He inspects his hands. “I hadn’t gotten to test the nukes yet, but I was pretty sure they worked. That was almost enough for me.

“Basically, I just got used as leverage.” He shrugs. A little hurtful, but he’s over it. That whole fight was Tommy’s big moment. He didn’t mind being a supporting character, one last time. “By the fourth or fifth time Dream had his axe to my throat, I just felt - bored. I didn’t even care anymore. I almost laughed; I wanted to tell him, hey, I’ve heard this one before. 

“But Tommy had somehow paid off Dream’s favorite mercenary to save our lives. Tommy killed Dream twice, robbed him blind, and then locked him up in an inescapable prison. So I guess Tommy’s alright now, although also he won’t ever be. And all my friends think I’m a madman for building nukes.”

That’s interesting, Schlatt notices. All through this speech, the atrocities Tubbo describes, his face has seemed blank. Soft. Only now, at the very end, do his features tighten with anger. 

“Some of them tell me outright - Tubbo, nuclear weapons? Oh, you must like explosions, you must want your home to go boom all over again. But some people just look at me like I’m stupid, like they pity me. But I know that if I want to keep my home safe, if I want to have anything in the world that I can protect and take care of, I need power. I don’t want it, I need it.” That’s why he’s resurrected an evil dictator in his basement. Why he’s pouring his heart out to the guy. “Tell me, Schlatt - am I wrong?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puffy: "If you ever need to talk to someone..."  
> Tubbo: "Therapy is expensive. Venting to my personal franken-fascist is free."  
> Puffy: "What? no--"
> 
> Next chapter: Schlatt psychology. Also Tommy!
> 
> please leave comment please I crave serotonin


	3. Want and Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schlatt's kind of an asshole. At least Tommy's doing okay.

Schlatt’s taken to pacing: melting tracks through the snow, disturbing the brambles. He’s not fast - in fact, he limps, and his gait is unsteady. But it feels incredible to be alive again. Maybe, if he takes better care of his body for once, he’ll have a few more years left in him. “Tubbo!” he calls out to the young engineer, his tone intentionally overfamiliar, “Can I leave?”

“I’m not keeping you here,” says the kid, “You know I’d like you to stay within the fences, where I can keep an eye on you, but I’m sure you could make a hobble for it. I wouldn’t waste a missile on you.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he laughs, still talking to Tubbo as though his enemy is an old friend. “I don’t think any of my battered citizens would be too happy to see me. I could use an escort, or at least your blessing.”

“You’re not getting it.” Tubbo turns a screwdriver over in his hands and twists it into his palm like it’s a knife.

“Well, what are you going to do with me? Long term! What if my heart hangs on for another decade? What’s your plan then?”

In truth, Tubbo hasn’t thought that far ahead.

“If you’ve gotten what you want from me, you might as well put me back.”

Tubbo’s not sure if he has. “What? Kill you?”

Schlatt shrugs. He has no intention of dying yet. He’s just testing the waters.

“I don’t choose to kill helpless people.”

“I’m sorry.” He’s never said that before. He’s not sure he means it. Sure, when he looks at this boy’s scarred face, he does feel bad. He’s always liked Tubbo, and now he respects him as well. He doesn’t love that he once hurt him. 

But when he thinks back to the day of the festival, he doesn’t regret anything. He’d been so unbelievably angry - he’d been drunk, too, but the anger was real. He’d watched as his life fell apart around him, his friends and allies and voters and cabinet and husband turned on him, abandoned him. He’d still thought he could pull it back, so he was mean instead of scared. Then he’d woken up the morning of his great celebration and felt his heart cramp, miss a beat, and had known he didn’t have long left. He’d felt reckless, bloodthirsty, and as the day dragged on and his body continued to betray him he’d simmered with destructive rage. His voice cracked as he gave his speech. He’d fallen facedown and been too weak to get up, and his cabinet had had to right him, all to save him from drowning in a mud puddle.

He hadn’t actually planned to kill Tubbo during the lead-up. Sure, he knew the kid was a spy - a terrible spy, even to the point of being an unintentional double agent. His right-hand-boy was such a goodie-two-shoes, honest to a fault, that being duplicitous seemed to physically hurt him. Yes, Tubbo was an obvious traitor, and Schlatt had been furious when he found out, but he still hadn’t meant for the festival to turn into a public execution. But then his body had begun to fail, and the President, scrabbling about for any handhold to stop his decline, had decided on a show of strength.

It had been so perfect. It still made Schlatt shiver to think of it. Tubbo, trapped behind his own microphone. Every single person in the audience, loud and clear, had heard the traitor whimper and plead. But a rocket launcher… Schlatt had learned a lesson that day about the dangers of overextravagance. 

His hand crept to the scar on the right side of his face. It was nothing compared to Tubbo’s brand, but his health had already been so weak that day, and he’d been so drunk, he’s never admitted it but he was actually blackout drunk, and he’s pretty sure he died. Killed by the scattershot of his own hired executioner. It was a narratively symmetrical fate, but Schlatt doesn’t believe in karma. 

So that’s one thing he has in common with Tubbo - he doesn’t like rockets either. They don’t scare him the way they do his victim - Schlatt can’t have flashbacks, the original memory for him is such a blur, but fireworks serve as a reminder that sometimes things don’t go his way. Is that the same as regret? He doubts it.

At least Snowchester’s not entirely boring. “The nukes -” he asks, “have you tested them? Do they work?”

Tubbo nods grimly. “Yes. They work.” And Tubbo takes him to see the test site, or what’s left of it. The undead man and the boy both dress in makeshift hazmat suits: hand-stitched leather with lead inserts. “This will protect you from radiation,” says Tubbo, “At least, it should. You might need to sign some waivers.”

Schlatt sees the crater, and oh God, once again, he’s floored. The bomb has taken an ice-cream scoop out of the earth, all the way down to black bedrock. The destruction is beautiful. The hole has ragged edges. “Holy shit,” breathes Schlatt, “I hadn’t pictured…”

“Me neither,” says Tubbo. “It’s so much bigger than I’d thought.”

“Fuck, I need to sit down.” How has this gotten away from him?

Tubbo takes his hands and gently lowers him to the ground. “Alright, Mr. President?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“Don’t worry, Schlatt,” says Tubbo, and stares the man directly in his rectangular pupils. “I won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t hurt me.”

But that’s not reassuring, because Schlatt has hurt Tubbo, has mortally wounded him. He’d thought he’d continue to get away with it.

“I won’t hurt you either,” says Tubbo, “Not if I don’t have to.” His shoulders slump. “I don’t want to hurt people.”

Schlatt holds out his hand, he’s a businessman. “I’d like to propose a truce.”

“A truce?”

“The past is the past. Don’t forgive me for what I’ve done, because I won’t apologize. We don’t have to be friends - hell, you can hate me, but I give you my word I won’t harm you, so you won’t harm me, ever again.” He means every word. It’s just good strategy. “Deal?”

Tubbo shakes.

***

Tubbo doesn’t want to be angry at his friends. That feels even worse than being scared of his enemies. He doesn’t resent - he loves Tommy, and wants the best for him at any cost. So while Tommy will always be welcome in Snowchester, he understands his best friend’s desire for space. Tubbo has promised that things will be different this time, but of course Tommy can’t believe that. After all he’s been through, he never expects to be safe again. He can’t trust that Tubbo will keep him safe.

But Tubbo relaxes a little, because he knows his friend will be alright. Tommy has the hotel, a project that’s all his own, and he has Sam Nook, the friendly robot that’s programmed entirely to look after him. Nook is perfect for Tommy: Tommy who needs someone around at all times; the robot is built specifically to be his caretaker. Tommy who thrives amidst firm boundaries and clear expectations, and Nook who has little nuance and no subtext written into his computer code. Tubbo swells with satisfaction as he remembers the healthy resolution to Tommy’s latest meltdown. His impulsive, aggressive friend, frustrated by a task, had raised his weapons against Nook. But the robot had only looked on passively, and warbled, “You may hit me if you like. I have been specifically instructed to protect you. I will not lay a hand on you.” And Tommy had lowered his axe.

Tommy has always let his emotions lead him along by the hand. But does he really think that Dream will stay locked away forever? Tubbo, for his part, is certain that the green devil will be back. He knew exactly what he was doing the day they chose to let the puppet master keep his last life in exchange for the ability to bring back the dead. His reign of terror is not over. But neither is Wilbur’s chance, and Tommy and Tubbo have a shot at coming back if they die before their time, and now Tubbo has Schlatt. That was the choice - to leave a door open. To never let anything be over.

It reminds him of the story of Pandora’s box: when she unlatched it, she let out evil into the world. But at the bottom of the box was hope. Tubbo can accept uncertainty, as long as there’s still hope. 

There’s a second weapons test scheduled for next week. He hopes that this is the last mushroom cloud before his enemies will get the message, and the nuclear warheads can be decommissioned. Foolish is excited for the fireworks show. Tubbo wishes the man would stop calling them fireworks.

Tommy leaves Tubbo a handwritten note inviting him to the grand opening of the Big Innit Hotel. Of course he will go. It makes him grin ear to ear to see his best friend create something that he can be proud of. Tubbo does not invite Tommy to the weapons test. And he can’t help but notice, half-erased, Dream’s name written instead of his own on the letterhead of the card.

He’s worried about his friend, and moreover misses him, so he leaves Schlatt behind in Snowchester and runs the tunnel back to where Tommy lives, that strange brutalist shack dug into a hillside. The highway was a mistake. The soul sand was meant to speed travel, but he and Tommy had both lost all of their armor… Well, their new armor wasn’t fully enchanted yet. And on hot days, the pavement seemed to melt, and an acrid scent of decay mixed with the sting of road tar.

He finds Tommy hard at work on his new construction site, which is still a mess of scaffolding and dry concrete powder. The boy is red in the face, arguing with his automaton. The robot’s code has recognized that in order to be safe, Tommy needs to feel safe, and so it has decked him out in a baggy leather vest, a yellow plastic hard hat, and sturdy boots. Tommy sees Tubbo, and his face brightens. He waves him over, but stops him ten feet distant with an outstretched hand. “You need to put these on,” he says, handing Tubbo a bundle of garish clothes. He puts on the getup over his parka, grinning, because after everything, he and his best friend would still go to the ends of the earth to protect each other. The robot burbles, and Tommy cocks his head as though listening. “Sam Nook says we have to wear safety pants,” he announces, passing Tubbo a pair of jeans.

“Thank you.”

“It’s important,” says Tommy, and his voice cracks. He knows these are just plain old denim, but it’s nice to pretend. Everyone’s always pretending. “I’ve been meaning to ask - can you help me with something?”

“Yes,” says Tubbo immediately. “What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking it might be nice to bring back Wilbur. I mean, not nice, but I think, I think I’m ready.”

Tubbo has known his friend for so long that he can tell Tommy’s about to cry just from the way he juts his neck.

“You know me, I’m not so much for the old science, if you could be… I’m going to need your help.”

Tubbo bows his head. “I will be there.”

Tommy sniffles. There are red blotches on his cheeks and around his eyes. “Not just yet, though. There’s things I need to get ready for Wil, before he comes back.” In a small voice, he adds, “I’m not even sure if it will work.”

Tubbo assures him, “It works.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesamdad this, Papa Puffy that. Tubbo gets an undead dictator and Tommy gets a robot. Take it or fucking leave it.  
> ...call that a nuclear family.
> 
> You miss Wilbur? I know I do. Before he comes back in chapter 5, check out the connected one-shot.
> 
> please leave comment please I crave serotonin
> 
> Next Chapter: Tubbo negotiates Mutually Assured Destruction.


	4. Powerful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo negotiates Mutually Assured Destruction with a pig. It goes pretty well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wished on the hyperfixation monkey's paw and now I can write 5,000 words a day but only if it's minecraft fanfiction.

When Tubbo stumbles out of bed in the morning, bleary with sleep, he almost forgets. Which is why he startles so badly to see a dictator, his murderer, sitting at his dining room table and eating cereal so greedily that milk runs down his chin.

“What?” says Schlatt blandly, “Got hungry. You have to feed prisoners.”

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Okay.” Schlatt chews. “By the way, someone threw a brick through your window.”

“A brick?”

“Yeah.” Schlatt pulls the weapon from under the table and palms it at Tubbo, who catches it in the stomach. It’s dark black-maroon, smelted not from river clay but the porous stone of the nether. And it’s tied to a note.

Tubbo is exhausted.

“You should probably read that.”

Who is doing this to him? All he wants is a peaceful home, a quiet place to work on his inventions and spend time with his friends. Even before he unfolds the paper, he suspects the identity of the letter-writer.

“‘President Tubbo,’” he reads slowly, “I’m not - I’m not…” He’s not anymore. “‘Heard you were starting a new government. I don’t like that.’” He feels the color drain from his face.

Schlatt gestures with his spoon. “Do you give a shit what he likes?”

“This isn’t a government.” He clenches his knuckles white around the brick. “This is my house.”

“Sounds like someone’s declaring war on your house.”

“That’s not - I’m so tired, Schlatt. I want to go back to bed.”

“Sleep tight and watch out for bricks.”

He knows Schlatt’s right. Much as he hates it, he has to take this threat seriously. He can’t relax until he addresses it. On the other side of the note, there’s a map, a set of geographical coordinates, a date, a time. “At least Technoblade is willing to talk.”

“Oh, Tubbo, I know you’re not this stupid. Do not walk into that ambush. Or at least bring backup.”

“It’s not an ambush. It’s - expected. I knew I’d have to do these negotiations.” Oh, but he’s scared, he’s so fucking scared. He never wanted to feel like this again, but he can’t see the difference between this meeting and cowering in a box, shielding his face with his hands, begging for mercy. He takes a shuddering breath in hopes of calming himself. “Schlatt, how would you like to be backup?”

***  
No more Manberg. Tubbo hadn’t lied, that place was fucking gone. He’s never seen a crater that deep - actually he has, just recently. The awful thing that happened here - Tubbo has found a way to match that kind of firepower.

Tubbo looks deflated as he checks the map, leading Schlatt over a rickety makeshift bridge. “I was supposed to protect this country. I can’t help but feel that I did a bad job.”

“Kid, I won’t lie to you. You fucked up.” Schlatt kicks a pebble over the ledge and it whistles through the air. They lose sight of it before it reaches the ground. No one needs to remind Schlatt that it’s not easy to be President.

Tubbo smiles bitterly as they leave the ruins behind and exit into a tranquil meadow. “The cemetery, I think. I hardly ever come here.”

If Schlatt has a grave, he chooses not to look for it.

“Check this out. For me! Made preemptively.” Tubbo points to a colorful mausoleum. There’s a shrine inside - a photograph of the teenager, which is surrounded by yellow concrete walls.

Schlatt snorts.

“It’s supposed to be bee-themed. But, just, what the hell?”

Beside Tubbo’s grave there’s a box made of cobble. Tubbo glares at it as he walks past and digs out a stone from the pile. 

“You lived,” Schlatt reminds him, slapping his trembling back, “Good fucking job.”

***  
When they reach the coordinates, there’s almost nothing to see. They’ve arrived early - Schlatt says it’s more professional that way. But Tubbo feels silly in his full suit coat, hot under the mid-morning sun, staring at the spruce trapdoor under his feet. Not another tunnel. Not another secret basement.

“Hurry up, kid,” says Schlatt, squeezing his shoulder. “We got things to do. Places to be.”  
So Tubbo, feeling as scared as he is brave, kneels down and undoes the latch, descends a ladder into the darkness.

Blackstone. Highlights of yellow concrete. Was this all made specifically for this meeting? His stomach turns. Black and yellow - who took those colors away from him? Schlatt’s got a crossbow, but he won’t hurt Tubbo. Technoblade, on the other hand… no, he won’t hurt Tubbo either. Not if he wants to get out of here alive. Tubbo steadies his breathing.

The tunnel leads to a meeting room. A long table, its surface black and shiny as glass, ringed by high-backed chairs. Where a centerpiece might be, an ender pearl hovers in a pitcher of bubbling water. Tubbo shakes the jar, and there’s a splash, a small burst of purple particles, and the pig man is standing on the table, standing over him once again… 

No. Nope, he won’t panic. He’ll focus on what he sees. The beady-eyed man in front of him, more animal than human with his stiff, bristly hair, coarse skin, snoutlike mouth filled with rows of sharp teeth. He snuffles, and his wet pink nose flares. His stride is easy, playful as he takes a seat at the head of the table.

“Hello, Mr. President.”

Tubbo wants to correct the man, wants to defend himself, but he can’t seem to speak.

Schlatt leans heavily on the table and laughs. “You don’t need to call me Mr. President anymore, Technoblade.”

Techno frowns and addresses the boy, who seems frozen in place. “If you wanted to convince me you weren’t corrupt, maybe you shouldn’t have brought along this friend.”

“Don’t judge a man by the company he keeps,” says Schlatt, “I’m no friend to him. I’m just here as muscle.” He smirks and flexes a wiry bicep.

The Anarchist grunts, unimpressed, and scratches at a patch of dandruff. “I seem to remember my rocket launcher killing you both.”

Tubbo’s chest tightens. He wants to pull off this suit, he wants to sink into the floor. He needs to be somewhere where nobody can look at him. His tie chokes him out and he can’t breathe, Technoblade’s eyes are hot and bright and unsympathetic - 

And gone, because Schlatt’s put his body between the two. He’s so steady, so solid. “We won’t be needing your services today, old friend.”

Tubbo shudders with relief. He can breathe, he can breathe again, just a little. This feels the same but it won’t end the same. Schlatt is on his side this time and he has something else to say. “I have nukes, Technoblade.” His voice is just a squeak.

“You have…” Nervous chuckle. “Kid, what did you say?”

“He’s got weapons of mass destruction,” Schlatt cuts in, his drawl deep and unobstructed. “Nuclear missiles. Bombs.”

Technoblade clenches his hoary fists, bitten nails disappearing into stained palms. “Who gave them to you?”

“What, you want to know who he’s beholden to? What powerful tyrant he’s in league with? Tell him, Tubbo.”

He feels faint but so proud. “I made them myself.”

“That’s right! This guy’s a fucking engineer. Hell, he’s a genius. Technoblade, you may think you’re hot shit but, well, you don’t want to pick this fight.”

Technoblade’s not so sure. He likes to fight. He likes blood, and violence, and explosions, and facing off against a real challenge. Most of all, he likes winning. “And what if I do anyway?”

“I’ll bomb you,” says Tubbo softly, “I’ll destroy your home so completely that you don’t have any pieces to put back together again. I’ll incinerate all your pets. I’ll kill you if I have to, and God help your neighbors.”

The pig man growls, ragged and low in the back of his throat. “What about your Snowchester? You think I can’t hurt you back?”

“No,” says Tubbo, “I know you can. But you don’t have to.” He feels good. He feels clever and powerful. He feels like his shoulders are finally filling out his sports jacket. “I could kill you. You could kill me. Let’s not. Let’s not fight anymore.”

It’s an impossible thing to agree to. What is Technoblade without violence, and bloodshed, and war? Then again, what is he without his friends, his reputation, his life, his home? “It seems we’ve reached a standoff, then. They call it Mutually Assured Destruction?”

Tubbo nods enthusiastically, his head bobbling up and down.

Techno feels sick as he signs the ceasefire. How has this happened? Who is this boy sitting up so straight across the table from him? Where has all his power gone?

***  
Tubbo wishes he could say he’s not scared anymore. But even as he emerges from the cavern, victorious and unharmed, Schlatt cheering him on with a string of profanities, he’s never felt so weak in his life. His legs are shaky and he’s sick to his stomach. And sick at the things that have come out of his mouth. What has he threatened? A home? A life? Animals? Civilians? He would never. Surely Techno knows that he would never. But the pig man had believed him, had been scared of him. Tubbo has his signature right here on the treaty. Is that the price of peace? He sort of hates himself. It is one thing to know you have power, another to have to use it. 

“Did you see his face?” crows Schlatt as they head home, taking the long way around the graveyard. “He was terrified!”

But all Tubbo can picture is his own scared, scarred, face. Who could possibly be intimidated by him, his round, color-drained cheeks, his trembling lip?

He doesn’t want any of this. Except he wants Snowchester, and he’s kept it, kept it safe through another storm. Someday Snowchester will be all peace and laughter and cozy cabins, and people will raise children there who don’t grow up to be like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade: Um… whatcha got there?  
> Tubbo, holding Schlatt’s hand: A nuke!
> 
> Schlatt Redemption Arc? You guys buy it?
> 
> Please leave comments I beg it makes my day every single time.
> 
> We have fanart! Oh my God we have fanart.  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/CLJE_JoAYMT/  
> Go show them some love!
> 
> Next Chapter: Wilbur? Wilbur!! promise (want more Wilbur? read connected one-shot!!)


	5. All Fun and Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur's back!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schlatt: All this suicidal ideation sounds like ligma.

Tubbo’s here, and he’s the one with the important job. He’ll recite the ritual, dispense the proper chemicals, run a jolt of electricity through Wilbur’s prone body.

Tommy is here too. He’s the one who will hold Wilbur’s hand.

This is for Tommy, so Tubbo will be quiet, although he will also be present. Wilbur can’t be left alone with Tommy, not after last time. He can’t be left alone in general. They love him. They miss him. He’s a danger to himself and others.

Schlatt had watched him tidy the laboratory that morning with sarcastic interest. “You’re bringing Wilbur back to life? You think he’ll like that?”

Instead of taking the bait, Tubbo sighs and adjusts his goggles. “You can’t be here, Mr. President. Wilbur and Tommy really don’t need to see you.”

Schlatt rolls his eyes as he backs away. “You can’t hide me forever.”

“Depending on what he does and doesn’t remember,” says Tubbo, “He may murder you outright. This is for your own safety.”

And Schlatt slinks off, humming.

***

Wilbur knows he’s wanted. But he’s equally sure he can’t be. After what he’s done, and he died on purpose, after all… He never wants to wake up. So at the moment he comes back to himself, though pain jerks through his body, he lies perfectly still with his eyes closed and holds his breath. He will simply squeeze himself back down. He will be like a stillborn baby that refuses to live. His heart will tick to a stop, and at last everyone will understand. They need to let him go. He isn’t afraid.

But dying isn’t as easy as he remembered. His diaphragm pulses, his lungs expand and take in air without his permission. The pain fades and feeling flows back into his body. Someone is holding his hand. Someone else is poking him with shiny metal instruments. And somebody is crying over him.

“Hey. Wil?”

That’s Tommy, but not the same as he remembers. The boy’s voice is a little deeper and so quiet. What has the world done to him?

“Can you hear me? Are you still here? Does it hurt?”

Familiar words.

He’s tired, so tired. He can’t speak or open his eyes or sit up. But there’s a hand already in his so he squeezes it tighter. He hears a ragged sob, feels a tear land wetly on the center of his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

His first words. His mouth is dry and they come out mangled. 

Tubbo places a stabilizing hand on the small of his friend’s back.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats it until he’s sure his words are intelligible. “But I don’t want to be here.”

But Tommy grips him so tightly that he knows he won’t be allowed to go anywhere else. So he gives in and opens his eyes.

Tommy is tall and shaggy-haired and tearful and trembling. He slumps to the bedside and presses his forehead into his older brother’s chest. Wilbur is so ashamed of what he’s done that he can’t allow himself to comfort the boy, to reach out and hold him.

Tommy hugs him anyway. His little brother burrows close to him, dribbles and sobs into the hollow at the base of his neck. So Wilbur, though his mind is absent, hugs back. Sits up. He has Tommy, and Tubbo is here too, watching from a corner, draped in a lab coat. Weird. He glances behind him. No, nobody else has shown up. There’s no one else in the room.

That’s alright.

Tommy keeps holding onto him, like if he looks away or lets go for even a second Wilbur will dash off and be gone.  _ I’ll be right back _ . He was, wasn’t he? In the end? He’s back. 

“I have a present for you,” says Tommy, and he reaches into his bag with one hand while keeping the other tangled in Wilbur’s sleeve.

Like Wilbur deserves gifts.

“Since I don’t know how much you’ll remember, I, I wrote you a book. I wrote down everything that I need you to know.” 

Tommy passes him the leatherbound journal, and Wilbur reads.

_ I don’t want to be angry at you _ .

That’s not the same as  _ I’m not angry at you _ . That’s not the same as  _ I forgive you _ . 

_ I never, ever gave up on you. Even when you’d completely lost your mind and I knew you were doing the wrong thing and I couldn’t rely on you I didn’t give up on you. That’s why I would have stayed with you until the very end. _

He was stubborn and loyal even though Wilbur had hurt him.

_ You can’t make loud noises around me anymore. Or I might get startled and stab you by accident, haha. So don’t slam doors or drop plates, or especially anything that sounds like an explosion _ .

He’s sorry. He’s  _ so  _ sorry.

_ You have to come stay in my hotel when it’s finished. I’m making a room just for you whenever you want to visit. _

Does Wilbur have a home anymore? He could go back to the ravine, but, oh, God. The buttons. Who had put all the buttons there? Was it him? Why can’t he remember?

The hotel will be a good, safe, place to sleep.

_ If you know where Ghostbur is, please tell him thank you for taking care of me while I was exiled and that I’ll never forget him _ . 

_ Dream is in the prison and he can absolutely never get out. Don’t fucking let him get out. _

_ Eret is a friend now. You can trust him _ .

Wilbur snorts. He seriously doubts that.

_ I still don’t get why you did the things you did. I hope I never understand. _

_ Please don’t kill yourself again _ .

Wilbur will make no promises. He’s always let his life be very tenuous. He wears no armor, fights battles in his shirtsleeves. He doesn’t bandage his wounds. That’s just the way he is. But maybe for Tommy, for a little while, he can try to be safe. He can’t help that he feels most like himself when he’s taking a bullet for someone he loves.

But he’s not sure when he started planning to die.

He remembers the morning of the Manberg festival when Tommy (who is bony and warm and curled up against his chest now) handed him a pearl, begging him not to go down in his own explosion. He’d brushed off the concern, swearing he had no intention of dying. He also remembers the day of the buttons, the way he’d run his hands along the walls and pressed them at random. That was Russian Roulette, but he was only playing for the thrill. He remembers the end of the war. 

The time since his death is much blurrier in that he only knows what the ghost told him. And his ghost remembered only happy things. He needs to fill in for himself the gaps by working from the negative space.

_ Remember how you made Tubbo the President? Well, he was. I’m not going to say it was right of you, or that he did a good job, but he was President. He did his very best. _

Tubbo. He’s scribbling in a notebook of his own now, eyes respectfully downcast from where Wilbur and Tommy are huddled together. The scars on his face have not faded, but he doesn’t seem ashamed of them. He treats them like any other facial feature, harmless as an ear or a nose. 

Wilbur had condemned Tubbo to death.

He’d asked Tubbo to be his spy! And then he’d been furious at the boy for cozying up to Schlatt. For doing his job. Wilbur had been so paranoid that even the soft, innocent, nature-loving child had seemed like a cold-blooded traitor.

Worst of all was the festival.

He couldn’t accept that Tubbo was giving a speech in Schlatt’s honor - because words were so powerful and personal to Wilbur. They were his weapons and his armor all at once. He meant every single one of them. He can’t treat them as throwaways. When he tells lies, they stick in his ear canals for years after.

Like the lie that the festival’s detonation would be Tubbo’s choice. He’d told everyone but Tubbo that “Let the Festival Begin” was a cue phrase. Tubbo would shoulder the blame for the fiery explosion that took his life. The button had gone missing, only to reappear around Wilbur’s shoulder in every frantic second of the short remainder of his survival. And no one had stopped Tubbo from going up in flames.

Now Tubbo smiles at nothing and hums a little song.

***

He’s been thinking about anthems. He needs a tune that’s beautiful but not sad. He’d ask Wilbur to write the lyrics for him, but he’s starting to think that every thought in Wilbur’s head is a sad one. He hasn’t stopped crying since Tubbo brought him back to life. 

“Tubbo, why are you happy?”

“He’s excited,” says Tommy, lifting his head from Wilbur’s chest, “Because you’re the first person he’s necromanced!”

Schlatt wanders into the room, tapping his cane on the tile floor. “Nah.”

Tubbo tries to close the door on him, like that’ll fix anything. “What are you doing? You can’t be here? Go!”

Tommy stares up at the horned man with wide eyes and silent terror. Wilbur scrambles to his feet and holds his little brother close.

“Hey, Lover boy.”

No, no, this is all going wrong. Surely not. Not like this.

“Sorry. I heard what they were doing to you and I had to know how you’d take it.”

Tommy finds his voice, wriggling out of his brother’s protective grasp. “Tubbo, what the fuck?”

“Is that?” Wilbur presses a hand to his temple, as though he has a headache. “But he’s dead - I remember… we won. We --”

Tubbo can’t deal with this. How’d it get so bad so fast? He’s lost control. “Schlatt, for once in your life, understand that you’re not wanted here, and leave.”

Schlatt grumbles as he limps away. The damage is already done. Wilbur is muttering under his breath, and Tommy looks scandalized.

Tubbo apologizes over and over. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean - I should have said -”

***

There’s no one in the world quite like Tubbo. Wilbur would have killed him, and he’s irreplaceable. A yes-man, but also a leader, because a leader can knit his people together. A scientist. A genius. A history-writer. An instigator. When Wilbur had said, “It was never meant to be,” this boy had countered “fuck fate, we tell our own story” and dug Wilbur out of his grave. He’s an architect, the brother to his brother, a good spy and an even better kid.

So Wilbur, although he isn’t sure he wants to be alive, places a hand on his friend’s shoulder and resolves to try one more time.

***

Schlatt really hopes this doesn’t end in tragedy. He’s not feeling optimistic.

Too much sappy shit. He’s going to go have a look at the nukes. He’s not allowed here alone but who’s going to stop him? Tubbo and Tommy and Wilbur are all busy in the other room. Like, hugging each other and crying.

The raw power contained in the warehouse makes his brain hum. When he runs his wrinkled hands over the shell of the bomb he imagines blazing forests, charred birds dropping out of blackened skies. He could take over the world, he won’t but he could --

Oh shit. He’s not alone in the hangar. 

The guy in the corner is spindly, black and white, eight feet eight inches of small dog anxiety. He holds a piece of rooted turf that he’s ripped out of the lawn and turns it over in his clawed hands, chirping softly. He looks long, lean, and light, like he’s got hollow bones, bird bones. Like a hard punch would splinter his femur.

Schlatt grabs the frail boy by the throat and pins him to the wall, glaring directly into his bulbous, multicolored eyes. “What the fuck are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think if you brought back wilbur he wouldn’t be all megalomaniacal again but he might walk into traffic
> 
> spare comments? please please I thrive off attention
> 
> Next Chapter: memory boy,,,, Minutes Man


	6. Until Someone Gets Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ranboo just wants to live in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ranboo's here neurodivergent gang rise up

Ranboo doesn’t  _ like  _ being grabbed. He doesn’t like touch. He doesn’t like eye contact. His beloved grass slips from his hand.

“What the fuck are you?”

No. That’s not fair. Why is the strange man doing this to him?

“You’ve seen too much,” the man growls, “I can’t let you leave here alive.”

Where is here? What? What has he seen? He’s just been roaming. Thinking about other things. But he’s sure he doesn’t want to die. So he lunges for the arm that’s holding him captive and bites down hard.

Blood. Blood in his mouth. Tastes like pennies and lamb chop. His attacker drops him with a howl. Ranboo crumples to the ground. He tries to run but before he can get up the strong, powerful hands have got him by the ankle and he smacks face-first into brushed cement. He hates pain he can’t handle pain and he’s so so scared. The man is about to kill him. He fights back as hard as he can but it’s not enough. So instead he goes limp and shuts his lamplike eyes. Catatonic, he hopes for mercy, prepares for much worse. Sometimes, he knows, if a small animal stays still and quiet, the predator will give up and go away.

“What are you? What is this? How did you get into the warehouse?”

He’d - he’d answer if he could, he would do anything to make this stop, but he just can’t speak. All that comes out of his mouth are soft  _ chirrups  _ and  _ chirrs.  _

_ “ _ Oh. You don’t talk.” Schlatt loosens his grip. Ranboo still can’t move but at least the knuckles don’t hurt so much where they dig into his shoulder. “That’s alright. It’s for the best. If you don’t talk, then you can’t  _ talk. _ Except -” 

No.  _ No.  _ He’s found it - the little journal that Ranboo carries everywhere, that he needs to have on him at all times. His memory book. The diary that holds half his mind. 

Schlatt snatches it out of his hands. “What do we have here?”

Ranboo finds his voice. “Give it back. I need it. I need it back.”

“No,” says Schlatt, “I don’t think I’ll be doing that.” And he reads -- he reads the memory book! Ranboo hisses in anguish.

Schlatt chuckles. “Lots of interesting tidbits in here, Enderboy.”

Ranboo mutters “No, no, no no no.”

Schlatt flips through the pages, rash and careless, dog-earing the corners, smudging Ranboo’s neat letters. “And you know about the nukes.”

Does he? What does he know? He can’t remember. He needs his memory book or he can’t remember. He feels blurry. Nukes? Bombs? Tubbo who he betrayed, Tubbo whose home he helped destroy, has bombs.

Ranboo will be executed. Ranboo is going to die. 

If he flees - if he runs right now, maybe he has a chance. But he doesn’t have his memory book. If he loses the book… he’ll be alive but he won’t be  _ him _ . He won’t remember who his friends are. He won’t remember what he cares about. He won’t know whom to help and whom to hurt. (Because you can’t help everyone, he’s learned that.) But is the book worth dying for?

Schlatt shakes him so hard that his teeth rattle together. “Hey kid, you listening to me?”

“Give it back,” he whimpers, staring at the man’s horns, at his stubble, anywhere but his eyes. “Give it. I need it.”

“Give him back his book, asshole.”

_ Tommy. That’s Tommy’s voice. Tommy is  _ \-  _ is Tommy his friend? Tommy has never let Ranboo get hurt _ .

“Fucking put him down.” He’s dropped roughly, and he slumps to his knees. “Ranboo! Are you alright?”

_ He’s -- he’s not sure. His neck hurts. _

“Here’s your book, big man. Breathe.”

Tommy presses it into his hand, and he has it back, the book, he has it, everything is okay.

“Tubbo,” says Schlatt, “Found this kid spying on your big secret. What should we do with him, boss?”

Tommy sees red, because he’s not letting this man hurt another one of his friends. Not like this, not execution style. Not while he cowers. “You’re not going to do anything to him,” he tells Schlatt. He steps in front of Ranboo, who is still huddled on the floor, flipping through his precious book and warbling peaceful noises. “You better not. I won’t let you, I --”

“Tommy,” rushes Tubbo, “Tommy, I would never. I promise that you’re safe, he’s safe, you’re both safe.” He crouches beside his Minutes Man, carefully keeping his line of sight over the other boy’s left shoulder. “Ranboo, it’s okay. I’m sorry. Do you need your grass block?”

Ranboo’s eyes are empty as he lifts a finger to his neck, where a bruise has started to appear, florid on his chalk-white skin.

“Schlatt,” says Tubbo shakily, “Schlatt, you can’t…”

“I barely touched him!”

Tommy makes a fist. “Well, never Goddamn touch him again.”

“Tommy,” says Ranboo. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

Tommy searches his pockets and hands him a slightly wilted red flower. It’s not Ranboo’s worn and ragged grass block, but he’s seen endermen carry poppies too, and it seems to calm them down. Ranboo smiles as his fingers curl around the stem. “Are you going to kill me?” Ranboo asks softly.

Tubbo’s face turns sickly white. He  _ hates  _ being afraid, but it’s even worse to know that somebody else is scared of him. “No. No! I swear to you, Ranboo: everyone is safe in Snowchester.” 

Ranboo’s not so sure that’s true.

***

It was supposed to end. It was supposed to end and never happen again. Tubbo’s never going to let it be over. 

Although Ranboo hated everything about L’Manberg’s death (the obsidian grid that hid the sky, the aerial bombs, the shrieking, foul smelling withers, the bloody bodies of fight dogs strewn along the streets), he’d been relieved, in the end, that his ( _ his? _ ) country was no more. He couldn’t see the point of bleeding for a place that made you give up on your ideals and hurt your friends. He knew many people loved the nation, but he simply couldn’t see anything good about L’Manberg, old or new. It was all a lie. It had been a drug van.

Doomsday he spent in the dark in a cold, damp, underground bunker, huddling his cats close to his chest. When the noises stopped and he realized he was still breathing, he had thought he would finally be  _ safe. _

He’d believed, just barely, when Tubbo built Snowchester, when Tubbo showed off his gleaming new village and promised that things would be different this time. But Tubbo had brought back  _ Schlatt _ , that violent man with his blood-soaked past, and secretly Tubbo had been constructing bombs… “Why?” he cries aloud, “What are these weapons even for?”

“We need to be able to protect ourselves.” He sounds defensive.

“From what? From whom? Phil and Technoblade are done! They’re done!”

“I don’t think they ever will be,” says Tubbo, his face darkened. “But that’s alright. Because I’ll tell you what I told Technoblade: if he touches my home, if he hurts Snowchester or Tommy or anyone else I care about, all I have to do is press a button and his stupid house becomes a smoking crater an acre wide.”

Ranboo stiffens, his expression glassy.  _ He  _ lives inside the blast radius and Tubbo doesn’t -  _ can’t be allowed to -  _ know. His shack - unsafe. His comfort room unsafe, and he thinks of his parrots with their scaly talons and technicolor feathers, the soft snow rabbit that shares his coloration, his pretty black cats, all turned to ash. And Techno and Phil aren’t safe, the people who are peaceful now, who have given him a place to live, who are taking care of him. His throat hurts. Tubbo’s old man crony had picked him up and slammed him around like it was nothing. He doesn’t understand how violence can be so casual. He may be forgetful, but he can’t forgive the way those fingers felt against his Adam’s apple. He can’t stay. He tucks that all-important book into his undershirt so that it rests out of sight, close to his heart, and ventures out farther into the tundra.

Home to the mountain, home to the modest hut with its grass (grass!) floor. He thinks of the turtle farm, the way his hands ache when he reaches into the water to free the hatchlings that get caught in the collection system’s filter trap. Of how torches melt the snow and ice refreezes, the empty pen in the front yard that used to shelter a horse. The kennel where the surviving dogs sleep. The pig man’s cabin is a peaceful place, and even if Tubbo keeps making the same mistakes, as long as Ranboo’s allowed to stay he knows he will be safe. He won’t get caught up in another war.

But is he safe? He wants to believe that the bombs won’t land. But optimism gets him nowhere. What to do, how to prepare, what to take care of before it all turns out wrong and Ranboo is incinerated?

(Animals are simple. Animals don’t fight wars, or choose sides, or build bombs.) Ranboo understands small animal minds, and he has a flock of creatures he must protect. This is what he has to do: build them a home encased in so many layers of obsidian stone that they’ll stay safe safe safe even until the world runs out of uranium.

He doesn’t want to intrude, so he’ll dig this safety box down instead, underground and into the mountain. He moves dirt. Sweat sizzles down his face, and he unbuttons his shirt down several inches from the collar. The ritual of hard work helps calm his spinning mind. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about. Maybe there will be no more explosions, no more terrible nightmare beasts to blunt the sun from the sky. But he digs, just in case, just in case. 

He doesn’t stop until his spade strikes blackstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no.
> 
> please leave me comments please it makes me so happy!
> 
> Next Chapter: Canon-typical parenting


	7. Role Models

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade gives Ranboo a present. Tommy and Wilbur eat a cookie cake. Tubbo is not a yes-man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have chapter titles now let's go gaymers

Technoblade boils stew, gilds apples. In the frozen Arctic, every day is equally winter. This suits him. He likes puffy, layered robes and hearty feasts and being able to see the humid clouds of his breath while he chops firewood.

The cabin smells of food but also of hot, smoky metal. He twirls the newly-forged blade in his calloused hands. He’s made many weapons in his time, and he uses them to kill, but also to protect the people he cares about. Once he armed an entire revolution. Since then, it’s rare that he gives away swords or axes as gifts. If somebody else is holding onto the handle, there’s no way of knowing which way the cutting edge will swing. Hardly ever does another person earn his devotion like this, his trust.

Here’s Ranboo now, knocking lightly on the door. Philza looks up from his writing desk and smiles. The enderman stoops down awkwardly as he crosses the threshold and steps into the warm yellow light of the foyer. He looks terrible.

Usually Ranboo is clad in a protective shell of heavy armor, but now he’s thin and bare. His suit jacket is off and the white shirt he wears underneath is unbuttoned and smeared with mud and other brown stains. His sleeves are unevenly cuffed to near his elbows. His cheeks crinkle with teartracks, and his forehead is dirty where he’s brushed back sweat. Most worrying of all, a fresh bruise blooms around his neck. Techno’s heart drops.

“Come in,” says Phil, “Sit down and have some dinner.” He’s not got a good look at Ranboo yet, his reading glasses are still on.

“I’m not hungry.”

Oh. Maybe the enderboy has already eaten. He’s always so hesitant to intrude. “I have something for you,” says Technoblade. “A gift.”

“Okay.” Ranboo’s knees are shaking.

Techno flashes the netherite battleaxe, black metal shimmering purple with refined enchantments. The enderman flinches, as though the pig is an enemy that he’s facing on the battlefield. Techno hastily steps back before offering the axe again, handle first this time. He smiles graciously. “The Axe of Friendship.”

Ranboo’s hands stay balled at his sides. “We’re not friends.” His voice is soft and unsteady.

“We are now. From now on.” Even though he seems sick and harried, Ranboo reminds Techno of his younger self, and he beams with pride. “I trust you. You are worthy.”

“No,” says Ranboo more confidently, “I mean that I found your fucking Vault.”

***

If the Blood God kills him now, at least he’s already written it all down. However, he needs no memory book to call up the sick feeling that he took like a knife to the back when he broke through the blackstone brick and his eyes locked on the sockets of a charred skull mounted on the opposite wall. One skull resting in lockstep with thousands of others, all displayed like trophies. Each leering grin seemed to laugh at Memory Boy for ever having been so naive as to believe that the violence could be over.

He forces himself to look up, directing his gaze into Technoblade’s wet nostrils. The brutish, bristled beast before him is stammering, trying to deny his actions, but Ranboo knows exactly what he saw.

“You  _ said _ it was over. No more fighting, you said. You’d won. I thought you’d be satisfied with that. I thought you’d stop.”

Phil flinches. Ranboo wheels on him.

“ _ You  _ told me I’d be safe here. You asked me if I needed a place to stay. You know I don’t want sides.”

He can’t be friends with everyone. He can’t be friends with anyone. There is nowhere Ranboo can go where other people’s violence won’t follow him. The  _ skulls _ , the monsters they will summon will carve furrows into the earth and leave the air poisoned and dot the ground with strange black roses.

“You are the reason that Tubbo built nuclear bombs. This is your fault. You are going to get us all killed. Me. My  _ friends _ . My pets. Yourselves!

“The skulls are still just hanging on the wall,” says Phil weakly. “The bombs don’t have to go off.”

“If this is peace then I don’t want it!” He turns away, his movements jerky, tears carving canyons down his cheeks. He slams the door and sprints across the lawn, past the torch perimeter and into moonless shadow. He can’t stay. He brings only his memory book.

***

A long silence falls over the cabin. The kitchen smells like blood although the blade was never used. Technoblade peels an apple in one long continuous stroke of a knife. Phil’s cheek twitches. “Well, I never liked him anyway.”

A spot of blood (his blood) on the tip of the paring knife, and it drives him mad. A sour scent lingers where moments ago a boy stood. Fear-scent reminds Techno of overpowering an enemy. Ranboo always smelled of fear and maybe that’s - maybe that’s why Techno liked him so much. 

He should be angry. He’s been betrayed,  _ again _ . He’s certainly hurt. Why did Ranboo leave? He wanted to be safe, didn’t he? Technoblade was the one who could keep him safe, because he was the most powerful. He wouldn’t ask a child to fight his battles for him, because he didn’t  _ need  _ to. As long as he could keep up the act of Blood God, the people under his protection wouldn’t come to harm. It was important that the rest of the world feared him. He’d endanger a thousand strangers for the sake of one friend. Wasn’t that exactly what Ranboo had asked for when he refused to fight for a cause? Wasn’t this something only Technoblade could give him?

Where had Ranboo gone? Where else could he possibly go? Had he fled for a destination or had he simply run away? Technoblade shuddered. It was cold outside, and Ranboo wasn’t wearing any armor. 

Techno will be able to track him. Even a traveller as dainty as Ranboo leaves prominent footprints when slogging through deep snow. He’ll keep his distance, let the young enderman make his own wrong choices, but he’s curious, perhaps even slightly worried. For Ranboo may not consider him a friend, but Techno still cares. He can’t just make himself stop caring.

***

Phil stands on the porch, half-dressed under his overcoat. His shoulders are shaking. “Leave him, Techno. Come inside.”

But the Pig Man is off in his own world, knelt close to the ground, snuffling at Ranboo’s tracks to pick up a scent. Phil can hear him mutter to himself, “I’m not a traitor.”

“What was that?”

“Do you remember what you told everyone? On the last day of the war?”

All his memories are painful, but this one is less colorful. “It was a misunderstanding,” he explains. “I realized soon after that what you did was not treason. You stuck to your beliefs, even when it wrenched you apart from your allies.”

“Ranboo isn’t a traitor, either,” says Techno, his pupils grown huge in the limited light. “So whether he’ll be my friend or not, I need to find him and apologize.”

“You’ll make it worse,” says Phil. He hates when his old friend gets like this - all hung up on a goal and he pursues it single mindedly, in superhuman bursts of no food, no sleep. He’ll never be able to change Techno, but maybe Phil can convince him not to begin this project in the middle of the night, to take a moment and let himself rest.

***

No light pollution out here in the wilderness, thinks Techno, gazing upwards into the smoky blackness. He should be able to see thousands of pinprick stars. He feels his heart leap into his mouth. 

“Phil. Phil, come on. It’s about to rain.”

***

Meanwhile, Tommy and Wilbur are eating an entire cookie cake.

“I heard that you stood up for Ranboo,” says Wilbur. His voice is tentative. “I’m proud of you.”

Tommy swallows a huge bite. “I wasn’t going to just let Schlatt beat the shit out of him, I’ll tell you.” He returns his focus to the pastry, tearing at it with chocolate-smeared hands.

He’s become painfully thin. Wilbur can’t help but notice the frantic way he eats, like he’s worried someone will take his food away from him. He wants to address this, but not in a way that will startle Tommy out of talking. “I think it’s wonderful that Snowchester has a bakery.” Puffy blushes at this; the woolly-haired woman is standing at the end of the counter. She pretends to polish a glass, but Wilbur knows she’s listening in on their conversation. He’s an adult; he hates that he has to be  _ watched over  _ like this. He remembers breaking down the safety rails from the catwalks in the ravine and how it felt to land hard on splayed ankles.

“I didn’t have much to eat in exile,” Tommy says softly, “But Ghostbur gave me whatever he could. He must have felt starved.”

“You meant a lot to him,” says Wilbur, “It made him very happy to take care of you.” He nibbles at a crumb. After the blandness of the void, everything is overwhelmingly rich. “So. Our Tubbo has nuclear weapons.” He shakes his head, but Tommy’s just sinks down toward the table.

***

Tommy knows exactly what Tubbo is thinking. He may not agree with his decisions, but he’s pretty sure he understands where his friend got these ideas. As always, his mind loops back around to the festival. The day the bombs did not go off. When Wilbur slipped out of his grasp. The beginning of the end. He has nightmares about it. He isn’t  _ over _ it and he never will be and he keeps bringing it up, and when he’s alone his thoughts all begin and end with the festival.

_ Be safe. _

Tubbo is forced to his knees. Tommy’s stuck in quicksand as his best friend begs for his life. (This is the last time that Tubbo begs.) There’s a pig on the stage with a wild glint in his eye and a string of drool running down his snout.  _ BANG,  _ now the whole world is red, white and blue. Tommy’s on the scene before the cardboard wrapper burns itself out but the firework has done what it does and he is too late. Tubbo’s whole face is gone and all he had on him was a slice of pumpkin pie. (Something Tommy can’t eat anymore.) 

Tommy goes home, to the ravine, where he should be safe, where Tubbo is waiting for him, and Tubbo is a patchwork of red scars and white bandages and shocked blue eyes. But he’s  _ still there _ , so it will be alright, Tommy thinks, if he holds his friend close enough and doesn’t focus on his anger and  _ Oh God the executioner is still in the room with them. _

He yells and screams until his voice is gone and it makes no fucking difference. He isn’t eloquent, Wilbur is, but Wilbur isn’t on Tommy’s side anymore. So Tommy removes his armor and lets the pig man beat him bloody, knock him unconscious because he knows it’s the only way he’ll get any sleep that night after what he’s seen and what he’s failed to prevent.

He’s still angry when he wakes up. He seems to be the only one who cares. He can’t just make himself stop caring. He knows he’s right, but he’s not the President, nor does he wield the gun or win the fistfight, so it doesn’t matter what he has to say, because the only universal language is violence. 

Tommy knows this. But he doesn’t want to hurt or be hurt anymore. He’d rather play his silly little games and pretend he’s still able to make a difference in the world.

***

Wilbur wonders how long it will be before people forget to watch him all the time. Because now Tommy’s eyes are glazed over and he’s nonresponsive when Wilbur wipes melted chocolate off his lower lip. Who did this to his baby brother? Wilbur’s gonna kill them.

***

Meanwhile, Tubbo’s putting the finishing touches on a nuclear bomb.

Schlatt sits on the floor in front of him and fiddles with a piece of bent wire. He’s antsy. He hasn’t had a drink or a smoke since he came back to life, and while his stint in purgatory seems to have driven off the physical dependency, the cravings are strong as ever. He just likes the way that cigarettes taste. But he’s stuck in cottagecore hell with only snickerdoodles to scratch the itch. He can’t get Tubbo to buy him a pack. Though not for lack of trying.

“You know, Tubbo, you’re still taking a risk.”

Tubbo shifts slowly under the weight of his lead vest. “How’s that?”

“You’ve threatened Technoblade, yeah? His house, his friends, his mortal possessions. What if he decides he doesn’t give a shit? What if he comes to Snowchester unprovoked and destroys the place anyway?”

God, he wants a drink.

“What you have to do, Tubbo, is strike first. Launch the nukes without warning and blow that little piggy’s house down. The laws you write are not magic. An election isn’t what gives you power. Treaties can be broken. Kid, the _only_ _way_ you can be safe is if you make sure that your enemies are _gone_. Take it from a guy who’s been around the block a couple times.”

“No,” says Tubbo, shaking with anger, “ _ No _ .”

Schlatt staggers to his feet. “What the fuck is the point of having doomsday bombs if you’re too much of a coward to use them?”

*** 

Building a bomb is not easy. Tubbo has spent hours blasting mountains apart, sifting through gravel, distilling radioactive isotopes from mineral ore. He’s spent long hours in his workshop, and the installation of each rivet and screw is a labor of love. Even this icon of destruction must first arise from an act of creation.

Everybody tells him, “Tubbo, take some time to think about this.” He’s had nothing  _ but _ time, and his brain whirs to a standstill. 

He doesn’t want to lose his home, but he can’t bear to lose himself. There’s got to be some kind of balance between being safe and being kind. Between being frightened and being frightening. He is neither the victim nor the executioner. “No,” he tells Schlatt, and he’s never been more sure of any word in his life.

***

**_Emergency Message, Phil to All Frequencies:_ **

_ Ranboo is alone in the storm, without armor. Enemy or friend, I need your help. Find him, find him before it’s too late. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this the "fluff" I've heard so much about?
> 
> Please comments please I beg I appreciate them so much
> 
> MORE FANART OH MY GOD MY HEART CAN'T TAKE THIS AMOUNT OF LOVE  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/CLM6n5JAsWc/
> 
> Next Chapter: The Finale


	8. The Cost of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ranboo is alone in a thunderstorm.

Schlatt is no hero and he never will be. That doesn’t mean he wants another child’s death on his hands. He heads out into the stormy nighttime with grim determination. Visibility is zero, so much rain that the air is fluid. His shiny Oxfords sink into the muck.

The storm is ratcheting up with thunder and lightning and Ranboo’s alone out there, the fucking idiot. Schlatt wouldn’t say he’s worried, but he knows the boy is thin and frail and weak and all that stupid shit.

The path is slick, the treads of his dress shoes are thin. Schlatt falls, sliding headfirst down a muddy embankment. He tries to catch himself and feels the brittle bone of his wrist snap. He loses his grip on his cane and the wind picks it up, carrying the mobility aid out of reach. The old man lies on his back, soaked and frigid and in pain, his body twitching as hypothermia takes hold.

His heart. Oh God, again, his heart. He feels the muscle squeeze out of rhythm. A single irregular pulse before the drumbeat stabilizes, but he knows what this means. He is weak, he is pitching toward the lonely dark end again.

He can’t just lie here. He needs to get up, but standing is impossible. Fueled by shuddering breaths and pure spite, he crawls on his elbows and his knees.

***

Tubbo is afraid of the man he’s become. All he’d wanted was to never have to live in fear again. But if fear is defeated, what’s he feeling now? Sick guilt and revulsion clambers into his stomach.

The way his friend Ranboo had cowered before him, expecting to be - _ready to be_ \- killed. The way Schlatt had looked to him, suddenly docile, a subordinate to be commanded. Tubbo sees himself reflected in the mirror of circumstance, but it’s not his own face staring back at him. _I’m worse than everyone I didn’t want to be_ \-- he understands that line now.

Tommy is fiery and rash - Tubbo has always admired his bravery, his conviction. To watch his best friend have to turn that defiance on him -- _don’t you dare hurt him, I’ll, I’ll_ \-- He would never hurt Ranboo. But whose fault is it that the enderman is out in this storm? His, and all of theirs. They’ve all failed him, that sweet, timid, black-and-white, memory boy.

Tubbo hopes to God that they can find Ranboo before it’s too late, but he’s a realist. The storm drums heavily on the fur collar of his jacket and the air crackles with deadly lightning. If they don’t find him soon, his friend will never come home.

***

Technoblade is an expert tracker with the nose of a truffle pig. As long as he has a scent trail, he never loses his quarry. When he sets a goal for himself, he never fails to achieve it.

But the rain has already melted away Ranboo’s footprints. The howling storm is dissolving all trace. His snout twitches, distracted by the powerful smells of ozone and rain and cold water and decaying leaves.

He must succeed. Technoblade never dies, and neither do those under his protection. Except for the times they do. He tries not to think about that. He wins his fights by being clever, strategic, and above all, prepared. But there’s no longer a track to follow. He’s panicking now, picking random directions. His odds, as he can calculate them, have never been so poor. At least he isn’t the only person searching.

***

Philza travels on foot. If his wings still worked he’d be flying now, whistling through the sky at a windy clip, the ground and the people spread out like patchwork, like little dolls below him. If his wings were still intact, he could find Ranboo and tuck him under the glossy feathers, his strong, sleek waterproofing exactly the thing needed to keep his enderboy safe. If Philza had protected his wings, then Wilbur’s death wouldn’t have been his fault.

But none of that was meant to be, so Phil slogs helplessly along the ground, the tips of his ruined flight feathers heavy with grit and mud. He won’t be too late this time, unless he is. He won’t make it worse this time, he swears on that. He knows he’s ruined everything. He has lost so much that he sits on a precipice now. One more strike and he will be numb, unable to feel any of this ache. If he loses another child, he will lose himself in the same instant.

***  
It brings up painful memories for Tommy to be alone and cold. But he can’t allow himself to focus on this. Not when his friend needs him. Tommy has been in much worse situations than this one, many times before, and he’s still standing. He just has to do that again, remember how to be confident, how to be brave.

His blond hair, not cut in such a long time, sticks to his scalp. He gasps as he runs, each breath more water than air. No, no, he hates that. He chokes on a fat droplet, and suddenly he’s back in Logsteadshire, waking up underneath the surface of the sea.

 _Exile._ He remembers a shared journal passed back and forth like a classroom note, an all-important chest of provisions buried beneath the roots of a fir tree. Most importantly he’s grateful for comfort and company, for one visitor without ulterior motives. Without Ranboo’s help, Tommy would be dead right now.

Please, God, let him find his dear friend. Let him return the favor.

***

Wilbur is alone and unsupervised for the first time since his resurrection. _He could - he could…_ … he wants to. And it could be weeks or months before he gets another chance. If not now, then when? He’s standing on the lip of the crater he didn’t make. Even the worst destruction he’s perpetrated had dug only a dent where this chasm now stood. He’s impressed. It’s a long, long, long way down…

But hasn’t he done this before? Not everything is about Wilbur. He can work out the conclusions of his own story later. There’s a young, frightened boy who is counting on his help, and this time Wilbur will not run away.

Because he’s not the same man who chose death on the final day of the war. He’s just as sad, just as self-destructive, but he carries a second part to himself now. A tiny fragment of soul who burrowed down deep and never left, who sees happiness in the tragedy, who might want to live, who remembers what it feels like to melt in the rain.

***  
Ranboo stands in the meadow and watches, cross-eyed, as yet another raindrop peels down his nose. It hardly hurts anymore. His claws hang limp, his long legs quiver. He isn’t sure what he expected.

He has never felt so stupid. Naive, underestimated, immature. He’s a baby. What’s the point of a world that can be so cruel?

He wants real peace, real friendship. If peace is just a ceasefire, just violence delayed, then maybe there’s nothing in the world he wants. He asked for an end, not an arms race. Oh, this tenuous balance…

Is it his fault that he sees the world so black and white? Violence is _evil_. Murder is _evil_. Hurting other people is _evil_. Loyalty to a friend is just like loyalty to a country: it makes you do the wrong thing. Ranboo refuses to accept this violence. He’ll make a stand, even if he has to stand out here in the rain to do it.

He’s so afraid of water. It burns him worse than fire. He’s in pain, terrible pain, as the sleet bores through his skin and tears holes into the flesh underneath. But he can’t react, he feels too empty even to hiss. He’s often felt as though he were born on the wrong planet, and he’s tried to make the best of that. But in the end, he has to face the truth. He is not meant to live in this world.

Something grabs onto his left ankle.

***

It’s the familiar hand of the grizzled man, the same one that left the purple marks on his neck. He spins, anticipating fear, but the dictator that had stood so intimidating is a different kind of spectacle now. Schlatt lies in the mud on his belly, one wrist manacled to Ranboo’s leg, the other dangling at an unnatural angle. His eyes are crazed, his face sweaty, and his breaths come out half-choked.

“I’m here now, kid,” he says weakly, “I’ve got you. But for your own sake, I fuckin’ hope you know CPR.”

***

Tubbo catches up easily to the two figures, limping shadows in the rain, as they make their slow progress through his favorite flower-gathering meadow. Schlatt and Ranboo, both soaked, lean on one another for support. “Minutes Man?”

Ranboo only chirps.

Schlatt’s voice is uncommonly soft. “Told you I’d find him.”

Tubbo and his clothes are already too wet to provide any comfort. But he leans over Ranboo, shielding as much of the enderman as he can with his small body. The hail is cold, and his teeth click together. But this is Tubbo, who’s taken a firework before to protect a friend. Compared to that, what’s a little rain?

***

They find Tommy next, perhaps because wherever Tubbo is, his best friend is never far behind. Tommy’s voice shatters when he sees that Ranboo has gone limp, his legs dragging over the ground. “No -- is he -- is he…?”

“He’s okay, Tommy,” Tubbo smiles, “We found him. Come here. We can travel faster with your help.”

***

Wilbur arrives with his gaze downcast and his hands shaking. “How can I help? What do you need me to do?” He searches about for a sword to block, an enemy to face, a gun to stand in front of. What’s he going to do, suck all the raindrops out of the sky? “I’ll -- I’m going to carry him.” He feels like a brother again at last as he takes Ranboo into his arms.

***

Despite Technoblade’s competitive streak, if he’s disappointed that the others got there first, that hurt is drowned out immediately by his relief that Ranboo is safe and being tended to. He drapes the boy in the still-dry layer of fleece that he wears under his cloak. Ranboo, though his eyes are closed, murmurs happily. This feels like winning a battle.

***

“Wilbur?” breathes Phil.

“Phil, don’t fucking cry on him. He’s wet enough already.”

His son is alive, Ranboo is alive, his son is holding his boy. Though the brown eyes that meet his are filled with derision and shame and hate, there’ll be time later to sort that out. _There will be more time._ “Where can we take him?”

Wilbur points with his chin. “The community house is closest.”

Techno asks, “Didn’t that explode?”

“Ranboo rebuilt it.”

“Oh.”

Thank fuck this kid is safe. This sweet, sweet boy. _And no thanks to Phil._ Oh, thank god.

They lay him down gently in the squat wood-and-brick building, remove his soaked clothes, towel off the dangerous water that’s still sizzling on his skin. Phil stares at Wilbur, his heart heavy.

“Thank you for your message,” Wilbur says finally. It’s a peace offering. “Thank you for doing the right thing.”

Ranboo’s breathing stabilizes as Techno pours potions over him.

“He’ll live, yeah?” Schlatt nods, “Emergency is over?”

“Yes,” says Techno, “He will pull through.”

“In that case--” Schlatt chokes out around the stabbing pain in his chest. He raises his tingling arm. “Can somebody help _me_? I think I’m having a heart attack.”

***

There is one last explosion. Technoblade lights the fuse before he tosses the plastic explosive into his own vault and slams the door closed. A moment later, there’s a muffled boom and Tommy flinches, even with Tubbo there to hold his hand.

“You didn’t have to watch,” Techno grunts.

“We wanted to see,” Tubbo explains, “To be sure it was done.”

“Well, it’s over. You saw. Go home.”

***

Tubbo and Tommy dig one last hole. As if graves were meant to be sixty meters deep. Tubbo surrenders his bombs, and over the top pours gallons upon gallons of liquid concrete. The rockets. The wet cement. All gone now. They cover over the tomb with dirt, and Tubbo plants a single dandelion to mark the place.

_(He’ll always know how to make another bomb. Technoblade is still the Blood God. This cannot hold.)_

***

But peace is not safety, because peace is not permanent. True peace is a delicate, cooperative thing.

“I can never take back my past actions,” Schlatt tells Tubbo, and he looks at the indelible scars on his young friend’s face. His wrist is immobilized in a plaster cast. The silvery pacemaker, a delicate feat of engineering, ticks in his chest. “But never again. I promise you.”

Ranboo’s memory book is its own sequel. And yet he lets himself believe in the hope of breaking the cycle.

Technoblade has been open about his intentions from the start. Today, he said that the violence was over. He never goes back on his word.

Wilbur and Phil are both so, _so,_ sorry. Tommy doesn’t want an apology, he wants things to change.

This was inevitable. This will never happen again.

Nothing ever ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love happy endings.
> 
> Thank you all for coming along for the ride.  
> I'm proud of this chapter, please come talk to me in the comments. It means so much to me to get feedback and attention.
> 
> Subscribe if you want to make sure you'll see my next project! Same fandom, pretty funny, quite dark, and completely original.
> 
> Take care! Love you! Shout-out again to my fanartist I can't believe I got art I'm still crying: https://www.instagram.com/p/CLJE_JoAYMT/ 
> 
> wait holy shit I went back for the link and there's MORE FANART

**Author's Note:**

> EPILOGUE:
> 
> Wilbur, Tommy, and Phil get family counseling with a licensed therapist.
> 
> Schlatt moves in next door to Tubbo. They banter constantly and go ice fishing together on the weekends.
> 
> Technoblade retires for real this time.
> 
> Little rain shelters start popping up all over the server. Everyone calls them Endershacks.
> 
> Dream stays in prison for everyone's safety. But he gets a potted plant, and after he's proven he can look after a living thing, Sam graduates him to a pet cat. **Edit 3/01. Fuck you no cat. RIP Pussboy**
> 
> (I don't write fluff BUT if any of you want to take this as a prompt drop the link and I'll love you forever.)
> 
> EPILOGUE FANART!!  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/CLQHSEeA4nh/  
> doodleshidoodles ur fuckin incredible


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